A Drop of Darkness
by CrossAcademy22
Summary: For five years, England's undergrounds triumphed over the death of the Phantomhive family. But they didn't know that Ciel survived, forced to live a lonely life within the shadows. Under a different name. A false identity. Until Fate decided to cross his path with another's.


_**A/N:**__**Clarence Baker**__**is NOT an original character**__**(OC)**__. The name is used by a canon character for a purpose. It's actually pretty obvious who he really is as you read on :) There will be no OCs in this story._

* * *

**Prologue**

East London  
December 1893

_When will you stop falling? You are nothing short of trouble. _

The window of No. 2 was misted up, so a pale, slender finger slid down it to create a clear streak. It enabled the boy to see that the cobbled courtyard at Lester's Square was covered completely with snow. A lone dead tree stood guard on one side of the yard, where there's a little patch of earth available.

Clarence Baker had always hated winter for its cruel, unforgiving weather, and the past few days were the very depictions of those words. Snow had been falling continuously, and it wasn't giving signs of stopping anytime soon; turning London into a dull, monochromatic city.

The cold forced him to stay inside most of the time, going out only to Undertaker's for work in the mornings. Today was Sunday, though, his day off, and he'd spent the whole day reading the final two chapters of a book, perched upon his favourite spot: the window ledge. With the book finished and thus no longer occupying his mind now, his deep-blue eyes scanned his meagre, simply furnished apartment, taking in the battered desk and chair, as well as the worn bed. A candle was burning itself out on one corner of the desk. Not far from it, a few books he'd borrowed were in a stack, none unread. The air smelled of clay and winter.

He glanced outside for one last time, and slipped off the ledge. He made his way towards the desk and added the book he'd finished reading onto the pile.

Fingers tapped to an unknown rhythm against the desk's wooden surface.  
Then they stopped.

_Damn the weather. I'm going._

* * *

Four distant tolls of a bell told the city's inhabitants that it was only four in the evening. Yet the sky was already darkening to a hue of grey. Vague rays of the remaining daylight were wandering aimlessly everywhere in between the falling snowflakes. An eerie silence greeted Clarence as he crossed the courtyard, with the books under his arm, and the dead tree – which struck out rather like a tall, thin man with countless arms – looking down at him. He kicked his way through the thick snow, aware that its wetness was starting to soak through his poorly laced boots and his socks within, one which bored a hole at the toe.

He exited Lester's Square through a narrow passage, which leads him out onto Cobourg Street. Pedestrians blurred out in greys as they rushed in different directions, desperately craving for the warmth of their homes. The boy quickened his pace too, and soon enough a signboard of a shop further down the street caught his eyes. The warm orange light glowing from its large windows beckoned him to enter.

Once the street was clear, he crossed it, careful as to not step in any grey slush, towards the _Midford and Sons Book Shop_. Despite the name, there were no sons of the Midford family working or even owning the book shop. Instead, it was run by the father, and the daughter.

For a few seconds, he stood outside the windows with his hands deep in his pockets, watching the girl with the wavy corn-blonde hair behind the counter.

She didn't notice him as he did that.

* * *

Elizabeth Midford was sitting behind the counter, an opened book in her lap, when the little golden bells sounded, announcing a customer. With a forced smile, she got to her feet; ready to greet the customer who was crazy enough to face the blizzard out there. Or perhaps the gentle man or woman merely wished to take shelter in the shop. The smile dropped though, when she saw that it was only Clarence.

'Oh, it's just you,' she said monotonously, taking in the shambled appearance of her friend: his dark hair tousled, with bits of snowflakes clung to the soft strands. The tip of his nose was bright pink and his face a few shades too pale. His blue eyes that she had always loved gazing into were looking at her expectantly.

'It's really cold out. Where were you from?' she asked, thinking that he dropped by on the way back from somewhere. Certainly not work, because she knew Sundays were his day off. It was only then that she saw the books in his arms. Her eyes narrowed. 'Wait. Home?'

He didn't answer her, and instead put the books down on the counter, with trembling hands.

'Clarence, you're shaking like a leaf in the wind!' she exclaimed worriedly, grabbing his hands. They were icy to her touch.

'I came here to return these and take new ones,' he finally said, tugging his hands away. His jaws were literally rattling, but he was trying, and failing hard, at keeping a nonchalant air about him.

She stomped around the counter towards him, shaking her head. 'I'm not letting you take any new ones before there's some colour on your cheeks. You look like the dead!' She knew she sounded stricken with worry, but she had every reason to. She feared that his asthma would worsen.

Ignoring her, he started heading towards the bookshelves. 'I'll be fine if I just move around for a bit. Are there any books that–' Elizabeth grabbed him by his arm.

'No,' she said firmly, as if a mother talking to her child. 'No books for you until you are all warmed up. Come on, there's tea at the back.'

He let her pull him towards the back of the shop, where there was a cosily lit room with a couple of armchairs and a round table. A hearth burnt brightly in one corner, heating the entire room. A bread box, a pot of hot tea, and a flask filled with coffee sat on the table. 'Sit,' ordered Elizabeth, making sure that he was sitting as close to the hearth as possible. Then she took out a cup and poured the tea in. She knew Clarence didn't like coffee much. Then she handed it to him.

He grumbled, but accepted the offer. He couldn't continue the act; his hair felt sticky and damp; his feet frozen. 'Thanks, Lizzy,' he said. As he sipped at it, the girl watched as he visibly shivered when the hot liquid entered his cold body.

'What were you thinking!?' she asked, her face twisted with worry. 'This cold could have triggered your asthma!'

'On Sundays, I'm an idler. You know that, don't you?' Clarence said casually, setting down the cup on the small desk beside him. 'Besides, I've finished reading all of them. I need new ones.'

'Idle as you were, don't go risking your health for such a mundane task as borrowing books!' she said, her voice a tad higher than she meant. 'Can't it wait till the weather had let up, at least?'

'Stop worrying so much about me, Lizzy,' Clarence replied flatly.

She blushed. 'I'm not! And you know what? I think you ought to work on Sundays too. Just to keep you busy and from acting so foolishly!'

Silence.

'You could have died,' she added quietly.

Looking up, he saw that Elizabeth was glaring at the hearth, instead of him. Her pine-green eyes that he'd always find beautiful reflected the crackling flame and the burning cokes. Her cream-coloured dress with black trimmings that hugged her graceful body. Her flaxen hair that smelt of roses. _How very pretty. _Another sip of the tea was taken. 'Where's your father?'

'Upstairs, napping,' Elizabeth replied quickly, before standing up. She gave a small sigh, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Then she looked down at the boy in the armchair. 'Just... stay by the hearth, please. And I don't want to see you back in the shop for at least another ten minutes.'

She stood fidgety for a second as if she wanted to say something, before leaving him alone to his thoughts.

He watched as the clock's hands hovered over the numbers, going from one to twelve, and repeating the cycle. Ten minutes passed, and the heat had perfectly warmed him, but he lingered a bit longer as to not upset Elizabeth. He didn't want to upset her any more than he had. The hands made another two rounds, and he entered the shop to find that Elizabeth had taken her initial place behind the counter before he came barging in.

She was reading again.

On the black cover of the book in her hands, _Oliver Twist_ gleamed in gold.

'You know how it is,' she said, without looking up from the pages. 'You can pick whichever ones you want, bar the ones on the first shelf. Those are new. Give me the list of which you are taking once you're done. I don't care if you take so many books to the point that you can't carry them alone. You might as well make this irrational trip of yours worth it in the end.'

He blinked once. 'Thanks,' he said with a small smile, and went off towards the maze of bookshelves, letting the familiar smell of ink and paper envelope him. Clarence loved books, and sometimes he'd spend hours in choosing. He was particularly well-versed in the works of an author named Arthur. A pseudonym or the man's real name, he didn't know. In his opinion, the stories written by the man were fresh. And freshness of writing was what he was seeking for in this bleak world.

The _Midford and Sons Book Shop_ offered both new and used books for sell, and Clarence was the only customer who they gave the privilege of taking books, without actually buying them. Not as if he had the money to buy any, though. The only money he possessed at one time is a few shillings at the most; his earnings from working with Undertaker. Elizabeth and her father allowed him to take as many books as he wants from the shop, but he would always limits himself to three books each time. He felt as if he was taking advantage on their kindness if he were to take so many.

A mere stranger without blood ties to them, he never understood why the Midfords showed him kindness – a human trait which he thought was lost from this godforsaken land. For five long years, it was a trait which he sought to have of his own. He'd lost it as time passes by.

Perhaps, on a summer day years ago, he _had_ truthfully showed it and offered it to Elizabeth.

Kindness, that is.

That summer day was the first time he ever laid eyes on her. He was going through the back alley of the book shop, a shortcut to his new home, when the breeze carried along the tune of a weeping girl. That was when he saw a black-clad figure sat hunched on the steps of the shop's backdoor. Wavy blonde hair tumbled down the figure's shoulders. She was alone.

He didn't know what possessed him to go up to her, but he soon found himself sitting beside her even though she never asked him to, to offer her his only handkerchief. She looked up then. They were strangers, but her drenched eyes spoke a thousand words when they met his.

Wearing black weeds which contrasted greatly against her fair skin, she told him that her mother and brother were dead.  
That they were stabbed to death on the way back from the evening theatre.  
That she hated the ones who took them away from her and her father forever.  
That she wished she could turn back the time.

He'd thought that the last sentence was stupid, because he'd done so himself if it was possible. But he didn't say that out loud.

Without words, she took his hand in hers, and held on so tightly that his hand turned white and balmy. They stayed that way for hours on the steps, until she fell asleep against his shoulder, her cheeks damp, and his handkerchief drowned in teardrops.

_Tell me... was that kindness?  
Staying by your side as you cried on... was that kindness, Elizabeth?  
You'll have to tell me, because I've forgotten how it feels like.  
I do hope it was.  
Or was that merely sympathy?_

He walked through the aisle, and stopped, when a gap between a pair of bookshelves allowed him to peek at the counter. At Elizabeth. His eyes softened. He knew he loved her, but at the same time, he did not. He could not. His existence was never meant to be loved, or to love.

Like his father told him for so many times in the past, a man born within the ... family had always been made to live _alone_ till he drew his last. Those words were carved deep into his heart, his mind, ever since he was little. He believed in it, because he knew it was the truth.

_I'm so very sorry, Lizzy. _

He tore his gaze away from the girl, and his finger traced the title of a leather-bound volume: _Songs of Innocence and of Experience. W. Blake._

* * *

Mr Midford rubbed at his eyes sleepily, as he descended down the stairs, and saw a blurry image of his daughter behind the counter. He approached her, but her deep-green eyes never looked up from the yellowing pages.

'Was there a customer while I took a snooze? I heard you talking to someone earlier,' asked Mr Midford. Elizabeth finally looked up at her father, who was in his usual white shirt and dark brown trousers, along with the braces on.

'It was Clarence,' she replied simply.

'Clarence? In this kind of weather?' said Mr Midford in disbelief, as he went towards the windows.

'You know how he is. Stubborn,' she said, without any true bites.

'You should've kept him here a bit longer. At least until the snowfall is no longer as heavy,' Mr Midford said, as he looked out to the street. Small hills of pure white snow were piling up on the corners where they were free from being stepped on, while tainted snow became pools of grimy slush. The gas lamps were already lit.

'He's stubborn,' Elizabeth repeated. 'I even offered him some more tea, but he insisted on going back after he got his books. He was literally blue from the cold when he entered the shop.'

Mr Midford shot a worried look towards his daughter, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes. 'Don't worry. He seemed fine, and I already gave him some boiling hot tea to take back home.' She left the book at the counter and went to stand by her father's side.

The two Midfords watched the almost empty street.  
Suddenly, two shady characters ran passed their shop.

Elizabeth shook her head. 'I hope Clarence is making the best use of his two feet to get out of this dreadful weather like those two men. Now father, shall we put the kettle on?'

* * *

Clarence Baker fought hard against the malicious wind, which never once stopped lapping at his face. As he was running past several closed shops towards Lester's Square, he suddenly heard rapid footsteps coming up from behind him. Before he could even turn around to take a look, two men hastened past him, knocking the books and the tea-filled flask down in the process.

'Damn kid!' one of them shouted rudely at him. A few choices of cursed words left Clarence's mouth too, and he bent to pick up the books from the ground. The flask had rolled a metre away from him. Luckily the leather covering kept it break-proof. 'Some manners they have,' he muttered bitterly, brushing the wet snow that had gotten on the books' covers. Elizabeth would have his head if he were to return the books damaged. In the distance, the two uncouth men disappeared around the street's corner.

With an annoyed huff, Clarence continued on until he reached the arched entrance of the passage leading into Lester's Square. The cold had penetrated through his few layers of clothes, and he was frozen down to his bones. He wanted nothing more than to curl under his blanket with the books, and to feel the hot tea burn his throat.

The courtyard was deserted, and the sound of the snow crunching underneath him bounced against the old walls. Hurriedly, he head towards the entrance to his building, but a movement out of the corner of his eye halted him.

* * *

Clarence's blue eyes scrutinized the darkness before him, expecting to see someone, but only the dead tree looked back at him.

He was about to turn around, brushing it off as his imagination, when someone, or some_thing,_ moved once more within the shadows. Finally, he saw it; behind the dead tree. From afar, it looked like a huge, black bag.

It jerked once more, to his surprise. This time Clarence realized that it was not a bag at all, but a man, slumped at the base of the tree with his two legs stretched out. With small steps, he advanced towards the odd figure until he was within an arm's reach.

A shiver ran down his spine. Not from the cold, but from the red-stained snow that surrounded the man.

Even in the gloom, one could see that one side of the man's unbuttoned coat was sodden with a mushy liquid, the colour of red, almost black. It was still fresh, still flowing out, and was quickly dyeing his shirt of the same colour. Even from one look, he knew that it was a grave injury. Fatal. The scene made his stomach turned, and the tea he drank threatened to come up. Swallowing a thick lump, he forced himself to focus on the head and no lower. The person had his chin resting against his chest, and his long inky fringes which fell forward covered his facial features from view. To his relieve, however, the man was still breathing, as there were white puffs in the air every time he exhaled.

Alive, no doubt, but barely.

He was at a lost of what to do. He reached out a hand, and poked the man at the shoulders, who responded with an almost inaudible moan. To ask the man 'are you all right?' sounded downright stupid, because the man was definitely _not_ all right.

He looked around, and saw no one.  
Only him, the stranger, and the dead tree.

The snow slowly covered them in its whiteness.  
The frosty wind gradually numbed them as the minutes ticked by.

Clarence knew he had no choice.

* * *

'How could you lost him!?' bellowed a gruff voice, making the two men cowered in fear. 'Did you searched the area thoroughly!?'

'W-we did, sir! But we couldn't find him!' stuttered one of them, his legs giving out under him.

'You good for nothings!' shouted the large man, boiling with rage. Kelvin's outburst of anger could be heard throughout the whole building, sending his other men hiding where they would be spared of his wrath. 'How dare he wish to leave us! The ungrateful bastard! With all that I've given him, he turned his back on me.'

A tall, dark figure stepped in between the two frightened men. The golden-brown eyes that sat behind the pair of glasses were sharp, demonic. Eyes which has witnessed deaths.

'Kelvin, sir, can you allow me to see to this matter myself? One of the men shot him; he was injured quite terribly,' said the man calmly. 'I doubt he could've gone very far.'

Kelvin's eyes softened upon seeing the young man who looked so much like his once-beloved subordinate. His once _most_ beloved subordinate, before he went and betrayed him. 'Faustus, you go then.'

'I will see to it that he's found as soon as possible,' Claude Faustus replied, a smirk tugging at his lips.

'Find him and bring him back. If he refuses, you know what to do,' the man said unfeelingly. 'You're the only one whom I can put my trust in right now, Faustus. Don't fail me.'

'Of course. Have no doubt in me, sir,' said, bowing at the waist in respect. Then he turned around to leave.

'Faustus?'

'Yes, sir?'

'If you find him dead, bring his body back.'

A final nod, and Claude Faustus set off into the night-fallen city, bracing himself against the blustery wind with nothing but a name on his mind: Sebastian Michaelis.

* * *

A small clunk made Clarence flinch, imagining the small deadly metal covered in blood, as he washed the bloodstained rags with water. The stains won't come off no matter how much he rubbed at them, leaving them tinted pink. Defeated, he drained and threw them into the metal bucket in the corner, together with the bloodied shirt.

'From a revolver, I think,' Undertaker stated suddenly, as he examined the piece of bullet on the metal tray. He moved towards Clarence. 'Please rinse it out for me.'

Timidly, Clarence took the tray and did as he was asked. The bullet gleamed faintly in silver under the dim candle light, and he vaguely wondered what it feels like to have one buried in his guts. Blue eyes slid towards the bed, where the wounded stranger remained oblivious to the waking world as Undertaker continued to stitch the gash on his torso. A _hole_ was more like it, actually.

More than an hour had passed since the man was brought up and in. Clarence had practically dragged the man by his arms through the snow, up the narrow winding staircase, and along the passageway leading up to his door. His rather small stature made it all the more of a challenge to drag the man who seemed to weight a tonne. Not to mention tall.

To add to that, a red trail was left behind, and it caused him to have spent at least a good half an hour out there, cleaning off any evidence that the man was ever there in the courtyard. Red snow were scooped and collected in a bucket, where they eventually melted into a red concoction of blood and water. Thankfully, no one entered the courtyard. There were windows looking down directly onto the yard, like his, and he could only hope that none of the neighbours saw what he did. For once, he was somewhat grateful for the heavy snow, since they helped cover the trail with fresh layers over time as he worked. Along with his pukes as well.

Only after that did he ran off to Undertaker's shop to fetch the eccentric man himself. The man was in the middle of a _conversation_ with a _customer_ when he came in breathless. He gave a brief explanation, and without a word, Undertaker took his apothecary's chest, and left behind his customer in the coffin.

The tray with the cleansed bullet was placed on the desk, and he wiped his hands off before nearing the bed in a timorous manner. Fortunately, Undertaker, who was kneeling beside the bed, helped covered the injured side from view, lest he might throw up again. His eyes settled upon the relaxed face of the stranger, the man seemed to be completely out, and possibly, dead. He wouldn't be surprised if Undertaker confirmed him dead, and that he was really stitching up a corpse.

'Do we know who he is?' he asked.

'No,' Undertaker said. 'I found no identification on him.'

'Oh,' Clarence said. He'd hoped to find out the man's name, at the very least. 'There was no weapon on him, was there?'

'None'.

'What of his wound, then?'

Undertaker paused, and then continued the stitching. 'The bullet had gone right through his left side, but I'm quite certain that no damage was done to any organs. And as you know, he'd lost a bucketful of blood, so don't be surprised if he doesn't make it through despite having been tended to.'

'I'd rather he survive; with all the troubles I went through in bringing him up here.'

The Undertaker chuckled. 'Are you sure about that?'

Clarence raised an eyebrow. 'Why?'

'This isn't the only wound on his body. There were several long, deep cuts on his arms from a sharp instrument. They're recent. His body too, is littered with old scars. One, I observed, was an old scar of a gunshot, like this one. If you look closely too, his wrists are raw from friction, perhaps from having been bound with a rope,' Undertaker said, as he continued to finish the stitching. 'This is no ordinary gentleman. You understand _what_ he might be, don't you?'

Clarence frowned at the revelation, his eyes studying the stranger's face. The man was quite handsome. Clean shaven without a scar on his face. He didn't look like a criminal at all. Nevertheless, looks alone can fool one. This man could very well be a treacherous man whose life was not worth saving.

Thinking back, he probably should have wired the Yard to take actions. Had it been his neighbours who found the man, they may have done exactly that. Or, they would have scurried away, pretending they never saw him. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

But then again, Clarence didn't know the man. The bleeding from a shot, and the scars; they could be telling a whole different story. Moreover the possibility of having been bound. Was he tortured for a sin he'd never committed? The man could be an innocent; a victim of the world under, like so many others.

'I know, but I couldn't have just left him there to his death. No matter whom he might be.'

Undertaker gave a lopsided grin. 'That doesn't sound like you, earl.'

'It doesn't?' Clarence crossed his arms, and scoffed. 'Well, that's good then, because I _wasn't_ trying to be _him_.'

'Who might you be then, _currently_?'

'Clarence.'

'I think I prefer you being the _earl_ compared to Clarence,' Undertaker said lightly.

'I do not. And do not call me _that_ when in front of others. You promised you wouldn't.'

'And so I did, but this man couldn't hear us. He's sleeping as soundly as our _customers_ back at the shop. For the next few hours, at least,' Undertaker said, finishing the stitch. 'That should do it.'

Clarence watched as Undertaker wiped off any remaining blood from around the stitched skin. The gaping hole had been neatly stitched up, but the reddened skin around it was slightly puckered from the pulls of the thread. There were other minor stitches too, he noticed, on the arms, no doubt the cuts Undertaker spoke of. Undertaker covered the man with a blanket, and stood to his height.

'You drugged him?' Clarence finally asked, as Undertaker stood beside him.

'As sedatives. It'll help him sleep and keep the pain at bay. He can't be up and about yet. Excessive moving would tear out the stitches.'

'I understand.'

'And it's for your safety, earl. If he tries to attack you when he's conscious, it wouldn't be much of an attack.'

'_If_ he tries to.'

Undertaker pulled out a corked flask filled with a dark reddish-brown liquid from inside his apothecary's chest he'd brought along, and handed it to the boy. Clarence recognized it as laudanum. 'Am I to give him this?'

'Six drops for every six hours, and no more,' said Undertaker with a snicker. 'We don't want him dead from an overdose, now, would we? All those dragging and cleaning would have been for nought for you. And I've stitched him up so beautifully too.'

'Or addicted,' Clarence muttered, as he set the flask of laudanum on the desk, along with a syringe and a packet of sterilized needles in a box. He wasn't sure about using laudanum, as the drug was effective in helping a person sleep, but there were side effects to the health too, and worst of all, addiction. It's the same as sending the man off to his death if he were overdosed. And it would be Clarence's fault.

'Are you sure we should use laudanum? Isn't there any other better medications?'

'What would you suggest?'

Clarence shrugged. 'I don't know. What if I accidentally give him too much?'

'I assure you it'll be fine as long as you follow the dosage I gave you. Now, you do remember how to use the syringe, right?' asked the Undertaker.

'Of course,' replied Clarence firmly. Undertaker taught him how to inject liquid into a person using a dead body before, so he should be fine with a living body. It couldn't be all that different.

'Then I suppose there's nothing more to be done here. I will dispose of the shirt and those rags later.' And by 'dispose', Undertaker meant burning them to dust. A careless disposal would arouse suspicions shall anyone come across them. 'I'll give you a larger shirt tomorrow. Just let him wear a shirt of yours for the time being, though it might be a bit small.'

The boy merely nodded as a reply, his eyes fixed on the bloodied shirt and rags in the metal bucket.

'I'll be keeping this too,' Undertaker said, picking up the tray and the bullet, before throwing it into a hidden compartment in the apothecary's chest. Then he turned towards the boy with an amused expression. 'Can I ask you just one question, earl? Your answer will be the compensation for my aid.'

Clarence narrowed his eyes at Undertaker. 'What?'

'Why go out of your way to save this man?' Undertaker asked.

Blue eyes widened at the question, but it wasn't unexpected. With a nonchalant air, he crossed his arms again. 'I saved him because I _wanted_ to. There's all there is to it.'

'That doesn't sound like you, earl,' Undertaker repeated his earlier words. 'That sounds like what _Clarence_ would do.'

'I don't care. Perhaps I was or _am_ him,' he said icily. 'You've got your answer, and your aid compensated. Now leave.'

Undertaker watched the tensed shoulders of the boy, and picked up his apothecary's chest. 'I will, but may I remind you again, _earl_, in case you've forgotten, you are not Clarence. You _never_ will be for as long as you live,' he said coldly.

The boy clenched his fists. Either from anger or sadness, he wasn't sure. 'The earl isn't here anymore,' he said in a low voice.

A heavy, cold hand fell upon his shoulder, and the Undertaker leaned in, his silvery long fringes brushing against his ear. 'Not to me. I don't want to play along with the act. Clarence is nothing but an _actor_ who masks the real you on this stage. To me the earl is _real_, and we both know he's very much alive,' he whispered, before backing away, giving the boy his space once more.

'Don't get carried away with the false identity, earl. Clarence was created to keep you safe, not to put you at risk. Only _act_ as Clarence, but don't _be_ him. The earl would've walked away from this man, not save him.'

'It doesn't matter!' Clarence suddenly shouted in frustration. Warm tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but he hid them well. 'It doesn't matter whether it was me or Clarence who saved him, Undertaker! I just wanted to save him. Is that so wrong!?'

A moment of silence passed between them. 'You once told me your goal is to live on.'

Clarence's face twisted from anger to a sick smile. Then he burst into a hollow laugh.

'"Live on", huh?' he said between laughs. 'Did I say that? I don't know any more, Undertaker. Do you call this "living on?"' Then he laughed again. Something within his chest bled painfully.

Undertaker didn't say anything but watched the boy in front of him. The boy he'd known for eighteen years. Only he knows the agony and solitude the boy had went through in the past few years. Clarence puts on a strong façade, but he knew the boy wept wordlessly every night in bed. He knew, because when Clarence had once lived above his shop, he'd find patches of damp tears upon the boy's pillow every morning. He feared the boy would break. Countless times, he felt like reaching out and hold the boy in his arms, offering consolation like he did many years ago when the young earl fell and hurt his knee.

The laughter had ceased into a deafening silence.

'Do forgive me for what I said, earl,' Undertaker finally said, breaking the silence. 'I just don't want to see you hurt. You know you are putting your identity and life at risk by getting involved with someone who could possibly be related to the underworld. You can't be so careless.' Undertaker glanced at the comatose man on the bed, letting Clarence know exactly whom he meant.

Clarence let his breathing even out, sending a lidded gaze to the bed.

'I'm only helping him recover. He'll be off as soon as he's better,' he said. 'I'm not that much of a fool as to go and see all my efforts in keeping my identity hidden for the past five years go down the drains.'

'I'm happy to hear that,' Undertaker said, with a rather wry smile. 'It's for your sake, earl.'

Undertaker took the bloodied fabrics in the metal bucket and shoved them into the same compartment he'd thrown the bullet in. He stopped in the doorway. 'Do come by tomorrow morning. Bodies are piling up from all over the city, and I'm in dire need of your assistance.'

There was no answer, but Undertaker knew the boy heard him well.

The door shut quietly. Minutes passed as Clarence was left with a dying candle light and the stranger in his bed. He stared at the door without actually seeing anything.

Undertaker's words repeated themselves within his mind.  
"_You are not Clarence. You never will be for as long as you live."_

_But it's all right to pretend that I am him, right? As long as everyone thinks _I'm_ dead. _

The old chair creaked when he sat in it, and he gazed at the peculiar items on the desk.  
The books, the flask of tea Elizabeth gave him, the box of syringe and needles, and the drug.  
On the right corner, a little box sat innocently by the melting candle. He frowned at it.

Pulling out the drawer, a quill was fished out and dipped in ink before it danced across a fresh piece of paper.  
Two words were written beautifully in cursive.

He held it up, glaring at the two words that made his life a lonely life to live.  
The two words which had been making his existence a dread to many.

'I really hate my name.'

Deliberately, he held the paper towards the candle and watched as its flame silently trimmed at the paper's edges in black. The flame licked at the still-wet ink.

Ciel Phantomhive

He scowled at it. 'I really, _really_ hate my true name.'

And Ciel Phantomhive sat quivering upon his favourite spot at the window ledge, as the paper crumbled to ashes on the floor.

He cast a sidelong glance to the stranger in his bed. 'Are you one of those people who would kill me if they knew I'm a Phantomhive?'

Only silence answered him. He gave a desolate sigh.

Remorse is the poison of life, he once read. It surely is true. Drop by drop, the sorrow and darkness of loneliness trickles down to his heart, hardening it to stone. It was frightening whenever he thought of himself turning into a _creature _without emotion or compassion.

Nothing but a cold-hearted piece of _shit_.  
Like all the Phantomhives were.

_It's just not possible, is it? For me to live a normal life._

_Like you often told me, father, "a man born within the Phantomhive family had always been made to live alone till he drew his last."_

_But I don't want that, father.  
I don't want to die alone._

Ciel wrapped his arms around his legs, as streams of warm tears trickled down his cheeks.

_It's so very, very lonely here, mother, father.  
It's foolish... but I too, wish for the time to turn back._

_I hate Ciel Phantomhive._

Yes, Clarence Baker was truly Ciel Phantomhive.  
And no one knows it.


End file.
